


Anchor

by vensre



Category: Hetty Wainthropp Investigates, Taggart - Fandom
Genre: April Showers Challenge, Asperger Syndrome, Detectives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vensre/pseuds/vensre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very old story, archived exactly as it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> Previous post at jgcrossing may be found [here](http://community.livejournal.com/jgcrossing/1536.html).
> 
> Illustration by [theopteryx](http://theopteryx.livejournal.com/).

~:

 

"Stay there, now. Are you listening to me?"

Geoffrey Shawcross glanced over at the source of the ruction involuntarily; a tired-looking woman of middle age, scolding someone out of sight in a tight Scottish burr. Frowning, she turned at last and queued up for the counter. Mild curiosity prodded him to lean around the edge of the aisle, but... he edged closer, intrigued.

The victim of the woman's lecture seemed to be a boy about his own age - hardly, Geoffrey thought indignantly, a person who ought to be spoken to like a child. Shorter than himself, with a pale, sharp-featured face and a closed stance... he wondered—

But then the stranger's line of sight slid across his; wide, guileless green eyes flashed towards him (connecting) and down again, and he lost all of it in mid-thought. Lost anything in his head, and the breath he'd been taking, besides. Geoffrey forgot about the errands he was running, forgot about the current case he was supposed to be helping with, everything outside the potency of one look from a strange boy in a Glasgow market.

A beat. His mouth hung open a little as he tried to gather his thoughts. And had almost succeeded when the boy looked again. Longer this time, and glancing him up and down as though assessing the danger, then fixing his gaze on Geoffrey's sternum. Who had just decided to apologise for staring and beat a hasty retreat, when a musical voice froze him again.

"Hello, how are you I'm fine, thanks very much."

Geoffrey blinked and recovered part of his smooth. "Hullo. Beg your pardon," he began.

"What for?"

"...Well. Uh, never mind." Um. Manners. "My name's Geoffrey Shawcross."

"Ah, your name's Geoffrey Shawcross!" The strange boy was smiling now, a smile the likes of which Geoffrey had never seen. He was absolutely still as the other approached slowly, head tipped down, but still looking steadily at the top of the zip of Geoffrey's jacket. Edged ever closer, and reached out... Geoffrey blushed for the first time in ten years as the stranger slipped a finger into his jacket zip and eased it open a bit further, brushing down the center of his chest. Over the skull-and-crossbones design on his black t-shirt, then away.

"What's yours?" Geoffrey asked, and it came out in a choked sort of whisper. What on earth was happening?

"Oh, I'm Jamie. Jamie Holmes." Those eyes flicked up, peeking through curling bangs, then slid away again, shifting about everywhere to settle again on Geoffrey's chest. "D'you like pirates, then?"

Geoffrey laughed, "Used to almost fancy meself t' be one. But yeh, I like pirates. You do too, I take it?"

And Jamie smiled _such_ a smile. "More than anything," he said, with an enthusiasm that people just don't _have_ about things. With more joy than Geoffrey had seen anyone radiate since he'd been a little kid, dreaming about impossible futures.

There was a pause in which he wasn't sure what to say, but Jamie didn't seem aware of any awkwardness. Sneaking a glance backwards towards the lady who'd been scolding him, Jamie stepped a little bit closer, inside Geoffrey's personal space, and said quietly, "You should come stay at our place, Geoffrey Shawcross, Geoffrey. We've an inn near Oban, the Copper Bell in Luing. You'll come, won't you?"

"When I can," said Geoffrey, quite startling himself.

"Jamie," called the woman. His mum? She rushed over, pulling Jamie away from Geoffrey, out of the previous intimate distance. "I'm sorry, he—"

"No call to be sorry, ma'am. We've been making friends. Yeah?" he glanced at Jamie, who made eye contact again for a splinter of time, then nodded, smiling that smile. "Geoffrey Shawcross," he said, extending his hand to her.

She shook it, and looked incredulous and confused, then made her excuses and left, with Jamie in tow... but the look he shot backwards went through Geoffrey like a deep pulse of sound.

This was not over, he resolved, steadying himself on a nearby shelving unit. There was more to know.

 

:~:

 

It was months, five hazy months before a case brought them back to Scotland, and Geoffrey made an innocuous suggestion to stay in Luing, mentioning only that he had friends in the area. Mr. Wainthropp, in a foul mood for one reason or another, had wondered aloud why Geoffrey didn't just stay with _them_ instead of tagging along with Hetty everywhere, but arrangements went through without a fuss.

So Mr. Wainthropp snoozed, while Mrs. Wainthropp leafed through a paperback. As the snowy grey seaside blurred by outside the window of the train, Geoffrey sketched idly in his notebook: scribbled-out doodles of a figure, nearly featureless but for vivid eyes.

"Geoffrey, are you quite well?" asked Hetty, sudden but unexpectedly gentle. "You're a bit pale, my boy."

"'M fine. Just... anticipating."

Hetty looked at him long moment. "I expect you'll be wanting some time to spend with your friends."

He smiled nervously. "I will."

"Well, that's just fine. I hope you'll introduce us."

"Sure! Sure." Geoffrey laughed uncertainly as they nodded at each other, and stowed his notebook for the remainder of the trip.

The cab that brought them from Oban to Luing slid through a stoplight in town, then finally lodged itself in a snowbank on the sloping road up to the inn. When two men bundled in woolen scarves and hats - only their eyes visible - came down to pull it out, the Wainthropps plus Geoffrey extracted their luggage, paid the fare, and trudged the last short distance to the inn.

Their breath had already frosted the collars of their coats by the time they reached the door, but it melted immediately upon entering. Though there were few people out on such a bitter night, inside the Copper Bell was all warmth and brightness. The innkeeper greeted them and helped with their bags without recognising Geoffrey, though he remembered her: the woman who had been with Jamie that day, looking less exhausted but just as busy.

She guided them up the stairs to their rooms, settling the Wainthropps in one and Geoffrey in the smaller chamber adjacent. Geoffrey plopped down on his bed, undoing his winter overclothes when she'd gone, though the door was left standing wide open.

Another door slammed somewhere up the hall, and he jumped, and thought, _nah_ , and mentally tried to step on all those butterflies marauding his insides.

But.

"Geoffrey Shawcross!" Jamie flew through the door and landed with a bounce on his bed, hands curling into Geoffrey's jumper and clutching his arm.

"Jamie Holmes." Geoffrey beamed. "You remembered me. I thought maybe..."

"You came," said Jamie, staring down at Geoffrey's hand. Loosing his grip to touch the palm lightly. "D'ye want t' see... Um. D'ye want a tour?"

"I would love a tour."

 

:~:

 

Following, Geoffrey could only move softly, trying with everything in him not to scare off this enthralling creature. Let himself be led to a room up more stairs, one festooned with piratical _everything_ , and it could only be Jamie's. Let himself be absorbed into this half-recognizable new reality.

Decorations, first of all. His own room at home (the Wainthropp's house, which honestly felt like home now) was not anything like - this place felt truly designed, infused with a tingling symmetry.

He was taking in the artwork on the bedside table with silent amazement when he glanced up and met Jamie's eyes for the first time since that day in the market. For less than a quarter-second, yes. But the world cracked open and sunshine poured in, knocking Geoffrey onto his backside on the bedspread.

Jamie started and took a step backwards, and hesitated there in the pull between two directions for a moment, but flopped down beside him. They lay side by side with their legs dangling off the bed, both facing the star-spattered ceiling.

"Alright, Geoffrey?"

Geoffrey laughed a whispery _huh_. "Who are you?"

"I'm just me," Jamie said quietly.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling appeared to be correct. Geoffrey picked out Orion and Ursa Major. "I've, just, I've never met anyone like you."

"That would be the autism," replied Jamie with a sort of grave humor.

Ohh. "That's not it, though. I don't think... that's not all. You—"

"I like you."

Gravity reversed unexpectedly, but Geoffrey decided to ignore that. "And I like you," he managed to reply. What?

The dark outside, and the wind howling. And the two of them on a thick warm blanket in the soft light. Not touching, but so near to. Geoffrey let his head loll over to look at Jamie, whose eyes were closed lightly.

"What now?"

Jamie sighed, sounding a bit cross. "I thought _you_ would know. Hoped so."

"Sorry!"

"Ach, 't'salright."

He shut his eyes then, too. Breathed the room around them, wood polish and clean cloth and snowy air wisping from the windowpane... And Jamie beside him, smelling of warm saltwater and sunshine on grass, despite his paleness, despite the winter. A tiny rustle of fabric alerted him just before Jamie's fingers brushed his own again, seeking permission to touch with a warm slide over the edge of his palm that Geoffrey was certain he'd be feeling for days after. Why would the crest of his hand be linked with the center of his chest, and the insides of his fingers with his lungs? He opened his hand, and the palms touched and pressed just a little. Jamie's fingers a hint shorter, the pencil-calluses from drawing noticeable.

He could hear Jamie's breathing, too. So quiet, but picking up slightly in pace. The wind behind it, shooshing through the catches of the old inn, and the settling and bending as the walls around them fought against the freeze. A thud from downstairs, voices clamoring far away.

"They'll be calling for me," Geoffrey said, half-voiced, "soon. Jamie." Suddenly dreading his return to the world of ordinary noise.

"You don't have to answer."

 

:~:

 

But he did answer, when the call came, because it was a call to supper, and Geoffrey - being Geoffrey - was ravenous. They both sat up at Hetty's voice echoing up the stairs.

"Will you come? Meet the folks and all."

Jamie looked down and pressed his lips together... but bobbed his head once.

The corners of Geoffrey's eyes crinkled up, he could feel it. They went down together, following the smells of food.

Hetty and Mr. Wainthropp were sitting in one of the booths, slurping water and looking cheery.

"Hoy Geoffrey!" said Mr. Wainthropp. "Does it matter what you're eating? We ordered you fish and chips."

"Works for me. Jamie, meet Hetty and Frank Wainthropp, my gracious employers. This is Jamie Holmes, the friend I mentioned."

"Found him already, did you?" Hetty smiled at Jamie, who ducked his head.

"Good evenin' how are you I'm fine, thanks very much."

"Hello Jamie," she said, only slightly nonplussed. "Won't you sit down?" She shifted to the other side of the booth with her husband to allow the two boys to slide in opposite. They did so, but Jamie perched on the very edge of the bench, tensed as though considering bolting.

Geoffrey picked up the anxiety as though it were coming from himself, and touched the back of Jamie's hand lightly under the table - at which slight contact Jamie started, a miniature convulsion of fear. He grabbed Geoffrey's hand, as though to keep himself from running off or crying out, then just sort of... held on. Which was lovely, Geoffrey reflected, in spite of the fact this wasn't really the place for such public affections.

Janet had never held his hand under the table, he thought, chewing idly on a stray straw. Which fell out of his mouth when he realised exactly how he was beginning to compare them, and all the implications of _that_ began ravelling in his mind's eye.

"Are you quite alright?" This from Mr. Wainthropp.

"I thought he was coming down with something on the train. Geoffrey? You're a very wrong colour, dear."

Jamie's mouth canted close to his ear, "Should we go back upstairs?"

There was a dreadful pause, in which Geoffrey knew he ought to be saying something. Explaining directly was right out. Excuses weren't emerging with their usual ease. Even making animal noises would stall them, but his throat wasn't working properly.

Ah! Saved by the manifestation of a fresh glass of water before him. He drank greedily, but after a few seconds became aware that he was being stared at in astonishment while Jamie shrank back, pressing into him and gripping his hand even more tightly. It was the innkeeper, standing at the head of the table with her hands on her hips.

"You! From the store that day, you were wearing a pirate shirt, weren't you? Jamie, did you invite him here?"

Jamie looked back and forth, and nodded, clenching his jaw. Geoffrey could feel their hands sealing together with sweat.

"Well!" she said in a tone of near awe. "To think after all these years he'd bring a friend home. Thank you for coming, child."

Hetty kicked him under the table before the protest could leave his mouth, so he turned his gasp of pain into a little laugh and said, "It's a pleasure, ma'am." And hazarded a revenge kick, which hit Mr. Wainthropp. Who beetled his brows at Geoffrey ferociously, but didn't bother trying to interrupt as Hetty reintroduced them to Jocelyn Holmes. Fortunately, the waitress came up behind her with their trays.

"If he won't be a bother to you—"

"Please let me know! If I am a bother. Because I can't..." Jamie trailed off, arching his neck towards Geoffrey as though he'd rest his head on Geoffrey's shoulder, but stopping just shy. _Because I can't usually tell_ , he mouthed - tongue clicking back the t sounds, making tiny hisses - and wasn't Geoffrey the only one near enough to understand the echo?

"You aren't a bother!" Having chorused the phrase in nearly the same intonation, Hetty and Geoffrey began to laugh.

"As long as we can still eat, it doesn't matter who's sitting with us." put in Mr. Wainthropp, appearing ready to climb over Hetty to get to the tray of plates. But he winked at Jamie, who looked at him with round eyes. Nearly overcome, Mrs. Holmes excused herself, and plates were passed around.

"Have some of my chips?" Geoffrey offered, his mouth already full.

Jamie accepted one with his left hand; his right was still gripping Geoffery's as though he'd drift away without some sort of anchor, captive to the current of the room.

Which turned out to be the truth.

 

:~:

 

He didn't mean anything by dropping Jamie's hand. Getting a glassful of water in the lap was actually rather low on Geoffrey's list of dire emergencies. But while he mopped at his clothes and Hetty fussed over the puddle on his plate, Jamie was edging away up out of his seat, flashing him a pained look and mumbling something inaudible. Then _fled_.

"W—" Geoffrey protested, but Jamie had gone. Distantly, footsteps could be heard pounding up the stairs.

Hetty eyed him expectantly.

"I suppose he thinks I'm upset with him for knocking it over," Geoffrey said, somewhat at a loss.

"...Well?"

Geoffrey looked at his plate, and the slightly damp food remaining. Looked over his shoulder at the door. "Erm." He speared the last piece of cod with his fork and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, then was up and following Jamie with a cheery wave before anyone had a chance to scold him about his table manners.

He didn't take any wrong turns in the hallways of the old bed-and-breakfast. Past his own room it was easy. Up the stairs and the door was shut, and there was no response to his quiet knock. He waited (and the timing felt off) and knocked again. But when he muttered Jamie's name into the edge of the door, it opened a crack and a vertical bar of soft light fell in a band over him.

Neither spoke. Geoffrey parked himself on the end of Jamie's bed again, kicking off his shoes and tucking his feet up underneath him. Jamie latched the door and sat down at the desk. His pencil scratched on coarsely textured paper, and he hummed on the edge of Geoffrey's hearing... who thought of the notebook in his pocket, but left it there. He leaned sideways on the blankets. Listening again, just appreciating the warmth.

He must have dozed, for when the bed dipped a bit with added weight, some of the lights were different. A hand settled over his face, one soft fingertip tracing over his eyelid.

"It's all right, you know."

Jamie sounded serious, almost bitter. "I don't mean to, but I always do."

"What, spill?" Geoffrey rarely spilled, himself, but that was only because the overriding goal was to get everything into his mouth.

"Mess things up. Make people angry."

"Nobody's angry."

Plucking at the front of his shirt and a brief touch to the top of his thigh was accompanied by an interesting falling sensation. "You're still wet."

"...It'll dry." Geoffrey pulled at the bedspread, bunching it beneath his head and drawing his limbs in sleepily. "Time is it, anyway?"

"Time is it. Late... after midnight."

One of the lights went out, sending smells of singed candle wax.

Geoffrey yawned and buried his face in the crook of his arm. Not a big difference, was it, a few metres down the hall, to his room? Where the bed was cold and everything was dark and smelled like laundry soap instead of seawater and smoke...

"Can I stay here?"

"You _will_?" Jamie sounded as though he had been granted a boon rather than asked permission, but Geoffrey was too drowsy to insist on putting a finer point on it. There was no comparison possible, he was deciding. Not to Janet. Not to anything he knew.

Movement, and the room grew dimmer. Pleasantly heavy blankets piled disorderly over him where he lay curled on the end of the bed - Jamie situating himself sideways, out of immediate reach, but. Geoffrey wriggled out of his dampish jumper, which muffled his, "Good night," before he pitched it out towards the middle of the room.

Half-heard an already familiar voice whispering, "Good night, Geoffrey." Quieter still, "Geoffrey."

 

:~:

 

The glare of sunshine off snow illuminated the entire room, and felt like Christmas, or Sunday morning, although Geoffrey knew (with uncommon lucidity for that hour) that it was neither. The snap to consciousness had happened with surprising ease. It was impossible not to know where he was, and who was still kipping next to him... Jamie was talking in his sleep.

Grinning, Geoffrey sat up and twisted at the hips to crack his back. He was a bit sore from sleeping sideways, but not as sore as he suspected Jamie would be with his neck at that angle. He was sweating, too, all but buried under those heavy quilts, and looked very young. Come to that, it hadn't occurred to Geoffrey to ask his age. It would be prudent, he thought, and besides - Jamie was the most interesting mystery he'd yet come across. He couldn't help wanting to know everything.

"Hey," he touched Jamie's cheek lightly, who flinched and muttered something. "Jamie? 'T's morning."

"Augh," groaned Geoffrey's mystery, turtling under the covers. "'T's _bright_."

"C'mon, c'mon, breakfast-time..." Further prodding and pulling at the blankets produced no results save irritated, sleepy noises. Geoffrey sighed and slid off the bed, lightheaded. He drew the curtains, casting a dark yellow glow over the room, muting the small sounds he was making. In the resulting dimness he noticed the ceiling stars still giving a good effort.

Reluctantly shaking off the stillness that permeated Jamie's space, Geoffrey found his jumper under the desk, and collected his shoes. "I'll be changing, then. See you downstairs?"

At last Jamie moved, but... didn't look up. Only shifted up into a slouch (one knee to his chest), put his hands to his temples as though his head ached, and started to rock, forward and back, ever so slightly.

There was no mistaking his upset, but Geoffrey was utterly lost. As much as he wanted to comfort, he didn't know what to do, whether to touch, or even why Jamie would be unhappy now, when he himself was so excited about the time ahead of them.

So mumbled, "Later," and left.

He expected the click of the latch when he pulled the door to, but couldn't hear it fasten behind him. And walked away uncertain. Mind completely occupied by the scene he was leaving, he nudged open the door to his room and circled the undisturbed bed. Washed and changed in mechanical silence. Blundered downstairs. Waited some amount of time, he wasn't sure exactly. _Should've just. Ah, sod it._ People began to appear eventually; the sun was up, after all. Geoffrey got his notebook out and borrowed a pen, then sat holding the pen a few centimetres from the blank sheet of paper and regarding it equally blankly.

Eventually, a familliar voice intruded on his thoughts.

"What's this, Geoffrey? Up so early? Have you finished breakfast, then?"

"G'morning." He called up a lopsided smile from somewhere. "Y'know, I'm not really hungry today. It's all this inactivity. Just wait till we get into the action, though. Then we can find an all-you-can-eat place to get kicked out of."

Mrs. Wainthropp narrowed her eyes, taking the seat opposite. "What do you mean, 'not hungry'? And you do remember that this is mostly a research trip?"

"Oh, you know me. I'm always ready for hot library action. Er." Geoffrey fumbled, and the pen - he'd already forgotten who he'd borrowed it from - clicked away beneath the table. Before he could duck to retrieve it, Hetty's hand caught him under the chin, angling his face up to inspect his eyes. He had no idea what she saw there, but she released his jaw after a few seconds and patted his cheek.

"Go back to _bed_ , young man. Go on! I can see when my assistant isn't going to be of any use. You just be careful with yourself for today, and we'll bring you up some soup later on."

Geoffrey's mouth closed on an, "I'm not sick," for he actually did feel rather off. He showed the Wainthropps a feeble smile, then rose and climbed slowly back up the stairs. Step, step, step, landing, step, step, he should have asked advice about Jamie, but that would involve admitting that he'd stayed in Jamie's room, and he didn't feel like explaining... and probably couldn't, anyway. Not when he himself hardly understood. Step, step, past his room, not even glancing at it. Step, step, step, he was tired, why was he so tired? Silently leaning, Geoffrey slid down the entryway to sit on the floor just outside Jamie's room. Propped himself against the door, head tilted up. Waited five long breaths.

Maybe all the ideas in his brain would run to one end, and he'd know—

Without warning the door let go, swinging open and depositing him on his back inside.

At this point, Geoffrey did something he hadn't done since the age of six: shut his eyes and pretended as hard as he could that he didn't exist. It nearly worked for a little while, but.

"How long," asked Jamie, distant, "before you leave?" He'd slithered off the bed and forward-rolled solemnly to sit cross-legged on the rug, a handspan from where Geoffrey's arms were flung up over his head in defeat, flat along the floor and half sticking into the hallway as he was.

"We have a week," is what Geoffrey found himself replying. _We who? For what?_ He shut his eyes. "Six days."

"Stay here. Stay here, stay here, stay here," Jamie sang quietly.

Something snapped, like a seal on a part of himself he never knew existed. Geoffrey tensed, then with one swift motion scooted up and put his head in Jamie's lap. "Come with me."

Jamie ducked his head, drawing his hands up to his chest, and smiled brilliantly, the way he had that first day (more than anything). "I have to—" he broke off to draw a breath and hold it, stretching out his arms, exuberant. Pressed his palms on Geoffrey's shoulders, knotted his hands again in the fabric of his shirt, then let go. "Sit up?"

Geoffrey obeyed, which gave Jamie the proper angle to hug most of the remaining hesitation right out of him. He returned the embrace gingerly, then snugger when Jamie's arms tightened and his forehead tucked between Geoffrey's neck and shoulder. It was quite a good hug: absolutely close, unmistakably affectionate. He laughed a little. "Wasn't sure you'd want to touch so much."

"Not with everybody, but. And pressure," Jamie said into his shirt, "like this, pressure feels good." His chin tipped up, placing his mouth by Geoffrey's ear, but his voice was more hushed than ever. "Do you know what I mean if I say that my arms _hurt_ to touch you? If I didn't, they'd ache, they'd ache."

"Ohh," said Geoffrey. His heart had commenced thudding in the exact center of himself, where a heart really had no business being. And, "I think I do know. Because." He swallowed hard. "I think," and he could not say any more about it yet.

 

:~:

 

He tentatively loosened his arms after a minute - it was past time to break contact - but Jamie leaned in even more, so Geoffrey abandoned the disengagement and hugged, nice and solid. He could hear Jamie's breath going out of him, then a hum of delight, and an actual laugh. Geoffrey's jaw dropped, and a soft squeal escaped. The muffled air of safety in the room was diminished by his heartbeat's refusal to slow, and the rush seeping through his system. His fingertips were tingling; they drifted up over Jamie's shirt collar to touch the back of his neck. His skin was cool. "Alright, Jamie?"

Another little laugh. "I want to know everything about you," said he, matter-of-factly. "You'll tell me, won't you? Where are you from? What's your favourite sweet? Why do you already understand me?"

"I'm sorry, but." Geoffrey laid his head on Jamie's shoulder. "I _don't_ understand you."

"But you must. You're here. You're, you're doing the right things. You seem to make sense, mostly, when no-one else does." He changed his grip.

"I don't— I'm just. You have to tell me about yourself, too. Agreeable? We can exchange."

"We can exchange," Jamie echoed back, in the exact tone Geoffrey had used.

Quiet, while Geoffrey's eyes roamed over the dim room. "And I like all sweets, but my favourite sort is anything chocolate-covered: biscuits or peanuts or cherries. Or ants. ...Is that a sword?"

Jamie pulled away to follow Geoffrey's line of sight, then further as his attention refocused there to the exclusion of nearly all else. "It's my sabre! Let me, um," he scrambled to his feet and stumbled, literally and vocally, in his excitement. "Let me show you? You might want to sit back," Jamie added, gesturing with the point of the sword he had retrieved from its corner. "Out of the way."

Geoffrey scrambled up obediently to perch on the bed, watching Jamie sink into a shallow crouch, his left foot turned to the side, and his right a step forward, pointing front. His body was angled sideways, and the stance would have looked odd, had the glinting slice of metal not rested ready in his hand. As it was, he merely looked prepared to defend himself. It was a striking scene, at odds with everything else he'd learned of Jamie so far— although he was halfway through reassessing even that notion when Jamie drove all the thoughts from his head again.

He'd saluted smoothly, then begun the wary fore-and-back shuffling footwork Geoffrey had seen in movies. Jamie executed a slow step, then a faster, and backing away three beats, pantomiming a deflected blow from the left. Without warning _lunged_ and brought the blade sweeping by Geoffrey's face, whistling as it went. The shockwave of air against his skin moved the curtains, too, admitting a lance of sunlight which shattered on Jamie's moving hilt, dazzling. At first it was so much blurred thrashing, but when Geoffrey concentrated he could see the line of the sword changing, guarding and striking, head, sides, arms...

Then suddenly the demonstration seemed to be over, and Jamie saluted again, smiling, sweating. "I haven't had anyone to practise with since Benjy left," he said, "and I never was any good. But I love fencing."

"Not good? You could have fooled me. It looked amazing," said Geoffrey (who felt sure that, despite his careful attention, he hadn't caught more than half of what had just transpired). "Although I thought I might lose my nose."

"I wouldn't hit you!"

"It just seemed close." In fact, he'd backed all the way against the wall without realising it.

Jamie came and sat near and touched his hair, setting the sword in front of him. "I'm sorry. You're all right, though?"

"Yeah, 's no harm done." He yawned, eyes watering, and rubbed his face. Feeling hopelessly outclassed, he picked up the sabre to inspect it. "Mrs. Wainthropp sent me up to get some sleep. Thought I was sick and all. But I'm not, it's just strange... I don't know." Maybe Jamie could tell him what was wrong with him. Maybe Jamie had it too.

But Jamie only corrected his grip on the sword and said, "They aren't your parents."

"No. Not my parents. I work for her; I'm her assistant." He couldn't quite keep the pride out of his voice. "We run a little private investigation agency—"

"A private eye? You're a _detective_?"

"Of sorts." Little thrills; he'd managed to elicit more of that powerful interest.

"I've been doing some reading..." Jamie hopped off the bed and moved away, returning with a stack of books, some of which looked suitable for use as blunt weaponry. "There was a police investigation came here in September. After pirates, you know, real ones, staying here at the inn! Since then I've been reading up on investigation processes; mainly police detectives, but there are a surprising number of private detecting organisations locally, and in almost every culture. Ye know, in Japan it's almost customary for people in arranged marriages to do background checks on their—" he stopped short, and pressed his hands to his face briefly. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Geoffrey repeated, puzzled, but Jamie didn't stop to explain.

"And now _you've_ come... How is it that you're all the most interesting things in one person? I... can't believe you've really come." Jamie stroked a thumb along the gold-toned edges of the volume he'd been flipping through, as though thanking it, then set it aside. "I have to stay with you."

Geoffrey shut his eyes. His breathing wanted to speed, but he swallowed and tried to relax. "I have to talk to the Wainthropps yet. And your mum will have a thing or two to say, I imagine."

Jamie took his hand. "I have to learn about you. I have to."

"I know," said Geoffrey. "D'you have a girlfriend?"

A soft sort of snort. "Nae. Girls think I'm weird, ye know. And they're right."

"I don't think you're weird."

"I think _you_ are," said Jamie, squeezing his hand. "Do you?"

"Do I...? Oh, no. I had one." He thought of Janet, her hair and eyes and hands, her smells of machine grease and lavender lotion. Her constant assessment of the people around her. _She was nothing like you._ "She dumped me."

Jamie drew and released an audible breath. "When was that?"

"Oh. Last summer. I'm, ah, I'll be twenty-one coming up in March. How 'bout you?"

"How 'bout you? How 'bout you?" Jamie echoed, first pausing to enjoy the shape of the phrase, then going back to its meaning. "Ah, I'm twenty-three. My birthday's August the twenty-eighth."

"You're older than me," Geoffrey said inanely, distracted again. Jamie was pulling their linked hands away, touching Geoffrey's with both of his, feeling of the nails and knuckles and bits of webbing between fingers. He shivered, and thought of pulling back, but it was clearly too late. Something must be coming into his bloodstream from Jamie's skin, and the... whatever-it-was... was winding inexorably up through his arm. It lingered white-hot in each joint. He thought he was tilting, and his eyes opened instinctively, but no - the rest of the world was the same. What eats balance and composure? What feels like lightning and smells like the sea and makes the whole future different?

"Oh," said Geoffrey aloud. "I have to—" Stay calm. Nothing too rash, now. He took Jamie's near wrist, tugged it over and up to his face. Held it there, watching the blush creep over most of Jamie's visible skin, the colour that said more than his downcast eyes. That promised he understood, then, why Geoffrey kissed his hand.

The tremor there did not reach Jamie's voice, which was quiet but sure. "Ye have t' stay with me."

 

:~:

 


End file.
